Jonathan Dunn - The Forgotten King

“Who is so daring to disturb my confidence? It would be better for you if you left this chamber at once, petty servant, and told your master I am occupied.”

“But I am not petty, my lord, though I am most humbly in your service,” answered a fluid tenor, possessed with a literary strength.

“Vahanlee! You have returned!” and the king stood to greet him. “I had feared the worst.”

“Your majesty, fear is an emotion unsuitable to your position. I am a loyal servant, of course, but it is not a service to incite fear in the fearless.”

“You are right, if discreet,” the king shook his hand. “I am a ruler, so I must not be ruled. But still, it would be a mortal blow to me, to lose you. Gylain has many eyes and though he woos France, he does not do so willingly.”

“Gylain knows nothing. Have I not been in his dungeons, myself? Yet here I am, released against his will,” and Vahan raised his arms to show his resilience.

The king was amazed.“In his dungeons!” he cried. “Does he have the mettle for such things?”

“I remained unknown to him, though he visited my cell in person.” Vahan lifted his head, in pure pleasure at relating in bravado what he did not undergo with such.

“This is too much, Vahanlee! In person?”

“Indeed, but perhaps because I was imprisoned with Alfonzo of Melborough,” he emphasized the name.

The king bounded up from the seat he had just taken. “Alfonzo, the son-in-law of my old comrade, William Stuart? Vahanlee, I knew you as a wise man and a great ruler – but I must add a man of action to your credentials. Tell me, what took place?”

“I will, your majesty, but there are things which pass this very moment and which each hour grow more dangerous for our dear Atilta. We can lose no time, for there is much to be set in motion.”

“Then tell me what I must know in haste and tonight we will relish the tale for its own worth.”

Vahanlee drew near the king. “The King of Atilta was your cousin.”

“Yes, though he is dead.”

“ He is dead, my lord, but the k is not; for his son still lives.” He paused and the king wished he did not, but enjoyed the rhetorical flourish nonetheless. “He escaped into the forest, living there alone for the last fifteen years. When I met him, he was accompanied by a black bear named Horatio.”

“Vahanlee, you astound me. I did not think those old wives tales could be true. But,” the king’s face clouded, “But if one is true, could not the others be?”

Vahan was silent. The king recited, “As went Atlantis, so goes Atilta, drowned beneath its heavy burden.”

“And so it will be, if Gylain remains in power.”

“Then what do you suggest I do.”

“Gather the fleet,” Vahan said, “And ready the soldiers: the Emperor rides with Gylain.”

“I have foreseen that much, since Lyndon is a man of short lineage. Where is my nephew, the King of Atilta?”

“In France: I have just left him. He contends with Nicholas Montague for the Holy Graal, to heal Lord Milada.”

The king lowered his glance from Vahan’s face and fell back in terror. “Vahan! Your shirt is stained with blood!”

Vahan looked down, and – with a hardened, forest demeanor – said, “So it is. We fell into combat with de Casanova outside the customs house; but do not fear, for he was easily dispatched.”

“Vahan, you are a warrior,” the king laughed. “See, I was wise to send you, in spite of your objections. I knew your strength more than you yourself did.”

Vahan colored at the thought.

“I will send a battalion to their assistance,” the king volunteered in the other’s silence. “Khalid,” he called, and a captain of the guards came from outside the door. “Montague has come, and you can avenge your brother in full,” he said. “Do not spare his life.”

“Of course, my lord,” he bowed. “But where am I to find him?”

The king turned to Vahan, who said, “The Cervennes mountains.”

“And how will I know him?”

“He is a powerful, dark haired man with a firm, unerring demeanor,” Vahan said.

The king added, “If they are captured, carry them to the fortress and execute them at once. Be careful, Khalid, for they are slippery fellows. Disregard their words, as honest as they seem.”

Khalid bowed reverently and was gone.

“As for the fleet,” the king said after a short pause, “They are scattered throughout the seas and it will take weeks to collect them again. And even then they must be outfitted.”

“You are mistaken, your majesty,” Vahan smiled slightly, “For I took the liberty of collecting them prior to my departure. You will find them collected and outfitted in the fortress’ harbor, with their crews collected and armed.”

“Forgive me, Vahanlee,” the king laughed, “For in your absence I had forgotten your genius.”

Chapter 65

“Do not lose hope,” Willard called back through the dense forest air. “The mountain draws nigh.”

“I cannot see,” de Garcia replied, “For the trees forbid any view of the sky above.”

“Yet I can smell the open air of the clearing. It will be only a moment.”

They walked through a last remnant of the ancient forest that still lingered on the continent, in the area of the Cervennes mountains. It was protected by some unseen influence that resonated from the main peak of the mountain range, but it still was not as ancient or majestic as the forest of Atilta. To Willard, the differences were clear: the trees were slightly closer, the underbrush thicker, and there were fallen leaves and branches littering the ground. In Atilta, leaves rarely fell, and the ground within the forest was but a shaded meadow. Yet to the others, the forests were similar. For some see personality when they look at nature: that some trees stand proud and others droop with worry, that some are plump and jolly, and others gaunt and solemn; while others see nature as a picture, as an immovable facade that is meant only as a backdrop for human things; others, still, see nature as a tunnel through which they must pass before they can return to civilization, that ironic human fancy.

Willard was among the first and thus was not lonely during his exile in the forest, since he had millions of companions. Ivona was also of the observant group and so was as comfortable in her father’s castle as in the wilderness. Patrick, however, was of the second declension: the forest was not beautiful in itself, nor was the dress, but when Lydia was present both were lovely. De Garcia was also of the second, though his romance was war and adventure his mistress; a solemn duel in the streets of Bordeaux was invigorating, but in the backdrop of the magnificent forest it was truly a tale worth living. Leggitt was of the third declension, and when he saw the forest it was merely the means to an end; for him it was military precision and theory, and nature only a variable within the strategic paradigm. As for Lydia, she was the troublesome, ambiguous soul, sometimes of one declension and sometimes of another.

It was now late afternoon and the forest was growing dark and chill. Its heart had turned against them. They walked at a steady pace but the trees went with them, it seemed. Each tree became another in the distance. Those not of the forest became disheartened. But then, the trees came to an abrupt end. As they looked into the distance, the forest stopped to watch them pass and they were cast forward into the embrace of an open clearing. Yet the clearing was not the relief they sought, for it was but a vacuum for greater things: behind them the mighty trees and before them the centerpiece of the mountain range – a peak of stone that tapered upward until it became a jagged spire that pierced the very bowels of heaven.